


Winter Where You Are

by lost_spook



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Public Eye (TV), Sapphire and Steel, Spooks | MI-5
Genre: 1960s, 5 Times, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Women Being Awesome, references to divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/pseuds/lost_spook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A seaside boarding house out of season can be a strange place at times - you never know who'll wind up staying for the night...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Where You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Doctor Who S7 only. Hopefully the crossovers work without too much knowledge required.
> 
> Dialogue in the last section is taken from Public Eye S4 episode "Welcome to Brighton?" (Also, I've stuck to the 1970s timeline for the series, rather than the 1960s - which would have put Frank's arrival at April 1967.)

**1\. Ghost Story (December 1963)**

Helen Mortimer opened the front door to find a girl standing on the doorstep. She was wearing a long, thick coat, but underneath it she had only a white dress that didn’t look warm enough. Her hair was long, fair and fine, falling unstyled to her shoulders. She looked as if she might float away if a gust of wind blew in off the sea. 

Helen felt a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to say that she’d already let her last room for the night, but there was a frost outside – the first of the season, sparkling on the pavement in the lamplight – and she wouldn’t leave anybody wandering about Brighton in this weather.

“You have vacancies?” the girl asked, with a sidelong glance towards the sign in the bay window.

Helen stifled her earlier ungenerous reaction, and smiled. “Yes. You’d better come in – you must be frozen. Just the one night, is it?”

“I’m not sure.” 

“Well,” said Helen, “it’s available, but let me know as soon as you’ve made up your mind. I’d appreciate it – if you still want it when I’ve shown you around, of course.”

The girl nodded. “I do,” she said, softly. “Want the room, that is. It’s why I came.”

Again, Helen felt it: an inexplicable and almost external feeling of resentment towards the girl. She pushed it down, irritated with herself, and led the way upstairs to the first front bedroom, where she left the girl alone.

Once she was downstairs, it struck her that she hadn’t taken her visitor’s name yet. Oh, well, she told herself, she could do that later. 

She noticed as she reached the hallway that it seemed colder than before, and for a minute she thought she could see frost on the walls, before she blinked again, and there was only the familiar William Morris patterns. She’d replace that as soon as she could, she thought. Something lighter this time, that would be nice.

She went in search of her son Nick to ensure he was getting his school work done, which he was, thankfully. Then she returned to the kitchen to alter her plans for a quiet meal in there for the two of them to include catering for a three course meal for a guest in the dining room.

*

Helen thought she’d heard a sound in the hallway, and on walking out to investigate, she found another strange woman standing there. This one was tall, blonde and dressed in a deceptively demure blue dress. She gave Helen a smile. 

“Your bell wasn’t working,” the woman said, as if that explained everything. “You have a room for the night?”

Helen nodded, merely mentally recalculating dinner again, something that was becoming second nature these days. She quite liked the challenge. “It does that sometimes,” she said. “I am sorry. Was it just the one night you wanted?”

“I believe,” said the woman, and it made Helen feel rather as if she might as well not have spoken, “that an acquaintance of mine arrived earlier. If I could have the room next to hers?” She paused, and then gave another amused smile. “We would be grateful.”

“Yes, that’ll be fine,” said Helen, and, too late, realised that she probably should have asked the other girl first.

The woman leant towards her fractionally. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It will be much better this way than the alternative. Trust me.”

Helen didn’t understand what she meant, but she believed her, and it was only some time afterwards that she stopped to think that was odd, too.

“There’s a room?” said a voice from the doorway.

Helen looked beyond the woman to see a man standing in the hallway, carrying a small case, which he handed to the woman. A brief look of private amusement also passed between them.

“Oh, is it for two?” asked Helen. “Mr and Mrs…?”

The woman turned back to her and gave her a more dazzling smile. “No. Steel has business elsewhere. If you’d show me up to the room… Mrs Mortimer, isn’t it?”

Again, it was only later that Helen realised that she hadn’t introduced herself. Still, she decided, her guest must have seen it in an accommodation list somewhere.

*

At the end of the evening, Helen busied herself with her regular tasks: seeing to the boiler, checking the door was locked, pausing to say goodnight to Nick, making certain he was in bed, and then she turned into her own room, more gratefully than usual. It seemed to have been an odd day, or at least an odd evening. 

Neither of her new guests had taken much interest in dinner. The first hadn’t even appeared, only insisted that she wasn’t hungry. The second had come downstairs and introduced herself as Sapphire, but while she’d been polite and complimentary about the meal, she hadn’t eaten much, and Helen couldn’t help but feel she was being humoured in some way. It was unnerving and she hoped they’d both leave in the morning, even if a few extra shillings out of season was an unexpected bonus.

*

Helen woke suddenly in the middle of the night with an inexplicable fear that there was nobody else in the house. There seemed to be silence all around her, pressing in on her, as if it was a tangible thing that could crush a person.

She must have been having a nightmare, she told herself firmly, but it didn’t dispel the intense feeling of loneliness. And cold – it was freezing. She didn’t recall the forecast having been this bad (although that never meant much, did it?). 

She sat up, holding onto the covers, and listened for a noise that would break the illusion left by whatever bad dream she’d been having – a guest wandering about, the wind outside, or a car tearing along the sea front in the small hours. Still there was nothing.

Helen told herself she should get up, check the house – perhaps make herself some hot milk and shake off the fear, but she didn’t. The silence seemed to pin her down and breathe into her a sense of cold isolation. It wasn’t entirely alien to her: she didn’t dwell on things, but there were moments –

A story came back into her mind, something from years ago, when they’d first bought the house – one of the neighbours had told her a girl had died in that front bedroom. Killed herself one winter’s night, she’d said in an impressive whisper, and then had been unable to supply any more details other than something vague about it having been at the end of the last century. She walks, the neighbour had added. Helen wondered why that had come into her head, trying to laugh it away, but she couldn’t. Maybe it had been the associations – the odd girl, the frost, the silence, the feeling of despair that crept in with it –

Sound returned then, as if a quietening blanket had been lifted. She heard her clock ticking, something blowing about in the wind outside and a floorboard creak elsewhere in the house. She shook her head, and laughed at her own foolishness, and lay back down. It seemed much warmer now, too, and she soon fell back to sleep.

*

Sapphire left in the morning. She gave Helen a smile and a further polite yet amused compliment on the breakfast she’d barely touched, and then walked down the hallway to meet Steel waiting for her at the door. He took the small suitcase from her, and again, a look passed between them, and then they walked away. Helen had to admit she was relieved to see them leave.

The other girl, she found, had already gone. The room was empty, and but for an open window and a pile of old shillings on the bureau, it was as if no one had ever been there.

***

**2\. Isolation (February 1965)**

“I went for a walk on the sea front,” said Connie, as Helen offered her young guest the cheese and asked her what she’d done with herself during the day. “I think it nearly snowed. Sea air, the doctor said. I don’t think he thought it through.”

Helen smiled. “Well, it’s certainly bracing, you can’t argue with that.”

“Better than going home,” said Connie. She coughed again, and looked rueful. She was supposed to be here convalescing, but she wasn’t much more inclined to lie about than Helen. She was, she’d told Helen when she arrived, a secretary in some government department and much more concerned about missing work, but the doctor had insisted, and she’d taken leave and come to Brighton. “That was his other suggestion.”

Helen gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, dear. Difficult, is it?”

“Not really,” said Connie. “Just Mother would say she knew that this was what would come of all that university nonsense, and it was about time I thought of the future and what about that nice young Johnny who still asks after me every time she sees him.” Connie replaced her knife on her plate in decision. “Johnny,” she said, “works for the Inland Revenue, gets all his opinions straight from the Times, and thinks a girl ought to be grateful for the chance to wait on him. And his ears stick out too far.”

Helen shook her head at the girl. “I don’t advise that option then. Hard enough to make it work when you really like someone, let alone when you don’t. And if you enjoy your job -?”

“Yes. Most of the time,” said Connie, giving a sudden, private smile. She was in her twenties, pretty with large blue eyes, but generally rather solemn looking. “Mind, men are the trouble there, too. I’ve got as many qualifications as most of them, but I’m the one who’s still a glorified typist.” With that, she set herself coughing.

Helen moved away, taking the cheese across to her other guest, a commercial traveller called Mr French, who’d stayed here once before. He was friendly enough, and surprised her by thinking to ask how her day had been, which not many of the guests did. She laughed at the question, and told him mostly shopping for exciting things like potatoes and carrots, which she hoped he’d enjoyed, but she was touched by the attention, more than she liked to admit. 

Honestly, she told herself, it wasn’t as bad as that. She had Nick – even if he was out with his friends as much as he could get away with these days (he was at that age) – and plenty to do, with guests coming and going. It wasn’t as if Denis had very often remembered to ask her what she’d been doing – not unless he had an ulterior motive.

She returned to the kitchen and started to tackle the washing up, when there was a tap on the door. “Yes?” she said, twisting round, but not enough to see who it was. “Nick?”

“No, it’s me,” said Mr French. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Helen turned further. “Was there something you wanted?” she asked. “The coffee will be along in a moment.”

“No, no,” he said, and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Thought since we’d been getting along so well –”

 _Oh_ , thought Helen, understanding enough from the tone. She removed her hands from the water, so that she could turn round fully, before he could get anything more than ideas. 

“Then you’d better think again, hadn’t you?” she said, with a raised eyebrow and icy politeness that could have frozen a whole army of amorous travelling salesmen. She gave a chilly smile. “I don’t allow guests in the kitchen, so I suggest you leave. As I said, the coffee will be along in a minute.”

He ran a hand through his hair, and looked as if he was about to argue, but Helen stared back at him, her eyebrow raised by another notch.

“Yes?” she said, remaining coldly polite. “ _Was_ there something you wanted?”

Mr French coughed. “No, no – bit of a misunderstanding, clearly. No need to be so touchy, Mrs Mortimer. I didn’t mean anything – just wondering about the coffee.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, smiling by way of defence again as he disappeared out of the door. Once he’d gone, she let her annoyance show, twisting the towel about in her hands, angry that she had been pleased, even for a moment, by friendly attention, when of course it wasn’t that at all. She really should have known better, she told herself, but then returned to her washing up, taking out her anger on the dirt, since it wasn’t the best idea to take it out on paying guests.

There was another knock at the door, and she tensed. Not that she couldn’t deal with Mr French, but she would rather not have to. “Yes?” she said.

“It’s only me,” said Connie, poking her head around the door. “You all right, Mrs Mortimer?”

Helen turned in surprise.

“Well,” said Connie. “I saw him creeping in here. Didn’t know if you might need –” she hesitated “- a bit of support, maybe? Didn’t like the look of him much.”

Helen dried her hands again, and set about making the coffee. She smiled at the girl. “I’m fine, love. He did get the wrong idea, but I soon set him straight.”

“You ought to throw him out,” Connie said. “I would!”

Helen laughed. “Oh, no need to worry. I expect in the morning, he’ll tell me that the breakfast isn’t adequate, that the mattress has lumps, there was terrible noise from the street all night, and he’ll be taking his custom elsewhere in future.”

“Happens a lot, does it?” Connie sat down at the table, and watched her.

“No,” said Helen, “of course not. But every now and then there’s one, especially – well –” She thought perhaps she was making the same sort of mistake again – talking too much at the slightest bit of attention. The girl couldn’t be interested.

Connie waited. “Yes?”

“Every now and then, one of them finds out –” Helen hesitated again, because it wasn’t something she usually talked about. “My husband left me. Most of the time I let them assume I’m a widow.” She gave Connie a smile. “Sometimes I wish I were! A separated woman taking in paying guests, however – seems to give some of them the oddest ideas.”

Connie looked up at her. “See?” she said, and coughed again. “It’s like I said – it’s the men that cause all the trouble.”

“Hardly fair,” said Helen, but she had to laugh. “Mind, there are times when it feels like it, I know!”

“I keep thinking I should do what they all say, throw the job in,” said Connie, suddenly. “If I’m never going to get to be more than a secretary, I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

Helen set out the coffee things on the tray. “But you like it otherwise?”

Connie nodded.

“Well,” Helen said, considering it. “It’s your life, your decision, but that doesn’t sound a good reason to stop. If that’s what you’re afraid of, that’d be letting them win by default?”

“Might be best,” said Connie. 

Helen poured the milk into the jug, one of the beautiful pieces of china that Denis had collected. “It might. Sounds a bit defeatist, though, doesn’t it? If you’re as good as you say, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”

“True,” Connie said. “And if not, I could always poison a few next time they want me to make the tea, there’s always that. How about I start with him in there?”

Helen shook her head. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, but she was amused. “Anyway, not yet – he hasn’t paid me!”

***

**3\. Not in our Stars (March 1967)**

“Something wrong, love?” Helen asked as she cleared away the tea things, collecting up the cups, saucers and tea pot onto a tray. “Don’t tell me you two have had a row, surely?”

Ben Jackson glanced up at her in surprise. He’d been too intent on staring down at his empty teacup to notice her. “Nah, nothing like that. It’s only – well, it’s like this, see. We’ll have a proper honeymoon trip next leave, when it’s better weather and everything, but it’s a long time to wait, and I wanted to do one thing special now –” Then he caught himself, and said, “Not that it’s not nice here. I didn’t mean –”

“Course you didn’t,” Helen said, and laughed lightly. “It’s hardly a five star hotel, is it? And that’s what you’d like to give her if you could – best suite, sea view, all the extras. Perfectly understandable.”

Ben nodded. “We got the sea view anyway.”

“Just about,” said Helen. “So, what’s the problem? You never know – I might be able to help.”

He sighed heavily. “Yeah, well, it’s all gone wrong, hasn’t it? And I mean, I know Pol says those things don’t matter to her, but I wanted to make the effort. Had it all booked: candlelit dinner at a posh restaurant. And now –”

“It’s fallen through?”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “Well, that’s what they said. ‘So sorry, sir, seems to have been a mistake. We don’t have a booking for that date and we’re full.’ Got some big group coming in or something, they said. If you ask me, they took one look at me and decided I’d lower the tone.”

Helen sat down on the chair opposite him. “Well,” she said, drawing the word out doubtfully, though she couldn’t deny the possibility. It happened. After all, it was in essence the same reason that Denis had walked out on her, so how could she pretend it didn’t? “On the other hand, people do make mistakes. All the time!”

“Yeah. I know.” Ben sighed again and put his head in his hands. “Least Pol didn’t know, so she can’t be disappointed.”

Helen shook her head at him. “Well, if that’s all it is, you can take that look off your face. There are other restaurants in Brighton! Maybe not the one you’d set your heart on, but you should be able to find something before you leave.”

“I know,” he said. “First thing I thought of, but they’re mostly closed this time of day.”

She laughed again. “Now you’re being silly. I’ve got a list of cafés and restaurants in the lounge – and a telephone! If you’ll give me a moment to clear these away, I’ll go through the book – there are probably one or two nice places I can recommend.”

“Reckon they’ll take bookings this late?”

She got up and picked up the tray. “Midweek this early in March? Be glad of the business, I should think.”

“Thanks,” said Ben, embarrassed. “You’re right – don’t know what I was making a fuss about.”

Helen stayed standing there with the tray. “Of course I am. Anyway, you said yourself that your wife doesn’t bother about that sort of things. That’s the part that matters, after all, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Ben. “Yeah, as long as it’s us, Polly wouldn’t mind if it was only fish and chips on the sea front. But just this once –”

“I know!” said Helen, amused. “You said. And if you wait there, I’ll even lend you a few shillings for the phone – call it a wedding present!”

Ben gave her a grin, and got up to open the door for her. 

“Thank you,” Helen said, passing through. “See? No need for the long face, was there?”

She smiled again to herself as she walked into the kitchen, and only thought it would be nice if other problems in life could be so easily solved.

***

**4\. To Catch a Falling Leaf (November 1968)**

“I suppose you don’t let guests use the kitchen.”

Helen looked up from her washing up, and gave a smile. “No,” she said, though more amused than stern. “What did you want? If it’s a cup of tea, I was just about to put the kettle on.”

“A soufflé,” Clara said. She was a young guest who’d turned up at the weekend without booking or explanation. Not that there was anything very unusual about that, but cheerful as she seemed on the surface, Helen had the impression that something wasn’t right. Still, she’d paid for her room, she wasn’t a child, and anything else wasn’t really Helen’s business. She’d also said she was a genius – _modest_ , Helen had commented, entertained – and she’d talked a lot about a modification she’d been making to her portable radio that didn’t mean anything to Helen. She had it with her now, though it was switched off.

“Ambitious,” said Helen, pretending to consider the matter of the soufflé. “But no! Guests meddling in the kitchen is against house rules.” Then she laughed. “Well, unless you want to stir that for me, love” – with a nod towards the saucepan on the hob – “while I make the tea.”

“All right,” said Clara, and grinned back, as she crossed to the hob and obliged. “I could use the practice, though. If you change your mind –” 

“Oh, no,” said Helen in mock-alarm. “Even worse! Tea is all you’re getting from me, I’m afraid.” Once that had been made, she gestured for Clara to sit down at the pine kitchen table, and she gave her a sympathetic look. “Bored?”

Clara shook her head.

“It’s none of my business, I know,” said Helen, “but what brings you here?”

“You mean, what am I doing hanging about at the seaside at this time of the year?”

Helen nodded. “Well, yes. You’ve not run away from something, have you – or someone? Dropped out of college?”

“No,” said Clara, after a pause. “No. Not really. Well, I have sort of run away from university for a week, but it’s not that.”

“You are going to finish, though, aren’t you?” Helen wondered fleetingly what it might have been like to have that kind of opportunity, but then she’d certainly never been a genius, or anything near it. At least Nick was getting the chance, even if she missed him, being too far away to come home in termtime.

Clara nodded, and then screwed up her face, and said, in a sudden rush, to get it over with: “It’s nothing like that, just my Mum – my Mum –” She waved a hand incoherently. “Sorry.”

“Oh, love,” said Helen in instant sympathy, leaning over to pat the girl’s hand. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You finish your tea, and then why don’t you go in the other room – find out if anything interesting’s on at the cinema?”

Clara nodded again. “Thought a week at the seaside – get away – clear my head –”

“Sure – and if this wind keeps up, it ought to do _that_ at least,” said Helen. 

When they’d finished the tea, she attempted to amuse Clara by telling her fortune in the tea leaves, but she couldn’t make any sense of them. And she’d always fancied she was good at it, she thought ruefully. 

*

Later that afternoon, while battling her way back from town against the wind, Helen stopped, looking up at the sky. It had grown ominously black, as if an evil-minded cloud had abruptly decided to fall on Brighton. She turned the corner into Sussex Close at a brisk pace, eager to avoid being caught in a downpour. As she reached number 24, she realised that Clara was there, clinging onto the railings.

“Forget your key?” Helen asked as she passed her and opened the door. Then she turned back with a frown. “Love? Are you all right?”

Clara was still holding onto the railings, as if it was the only way she could keep standing. “I did it,” she said, shaking and incoherent. “My radio. It confused their signals – he got away – stopped them.”

Helen dropped her shopping inside the hallway, and helped Clara inside. “Whatever happened? You’re freezing!” It couldn’t be just the weather, she thought, alarmed, though she was baffled as to what could have caused the trouble.

“Well, there was a flaw,” said Clara, her teeth chattering as she tried to speak. Helen was pretty sure the girl was light-headed, too much so to worry over what she was saying. “Feedback. Massive feedback. But I remember now. It’s all right.”

Helen ushered her into the sitting room and into the sofa. “I don’t think you’re well. Shall I phone for an ambulance?”

“Too late,” said Clara, shivering harder. “The soufflé isn’t the soufflé, it’s the recipe. That’s what’s important.” She leant against the cushions of the settee, closing her eyes. “Except it hurts. Does it always hurt?”

That was more than enough, Helen thought, and decided to phone the emergency services, regardless of what Clara said. By the time she returned from the hallway, Clara had stopped shivering but she was leaning limply against the settee, looking very pale, with her face screwed up against the pain.

“Help is on its way,” Helen said as cheerfully as she could, and sat down beside the girl, reaching across to take her hand. “It’ll all be all right, you’ll see.”

Clara lifted her head with an effort. “It _is_ all right,” she said, with complete certainty. “I did it. That’s what matters. I remember.” 

“I expect it is,” said Helen, humouring the girl, and squeezing her hand. Then Clara gave a short cry, and clutched at her. Helen held onto her in return, smoothing down the girl’s hair, trying to be as comforting as she could. She had an awful feeling it was all anybody was going to be able to do. Maybe she hadn’t been so bad at the tea leaves, after all. 

In a few moments more, Clara had gone, as inexplicably as she’d arrived. 

The ambulance arrived too late, though they couldn’t explain what had happened any more than Helen could. She’d have to talk to someone, the ambulance man had said, probably they’d have to send a police officer around, and she’d nodded numbly through it all, and only thought how empty the house seemed again once they’d gone.

You shouldn’t get involved with people, with their problems, she told herself for what must be the hundredth time, but she never really listened to her own advice. Clara, though, had seemed so sure at the end, Helen thought, snatching at straws of comfort, and took that at least as a good sign for the next life, if nothing more.

***

**5\. Spring (April 1969)**

He came in while she was in the middle of cleaning the glass pieces of the lampshade, and asking herself again why she’d ever bought such an impractical thing, laughing a little at her own foolishness. (“The dirt that collects on these things – every other fly in Sussex! I must be mad.”)

“Mr Marker?” she said, still giving her attention to the light fittings rather than to her latest guest. “I’m Mrs Mortimer. Welcome to Brighton. I hope you’ve brought some decent weather with you.”

She glanced at him, then, discreetly, under her lashes, trying not to pry or stare. He wasn’t really what she’d expected – tall, thin, all eyes, and wearing a shabby raincoat – but then again, she didn’t know what she had expected a private detective to look like, and they were all a bit shell-shocked when they first got out, her probationers. She felt sorry for him – for all of them.

“Oh, pure sunshine,” Frank Marker said, in ironic answer to her question.

She laughed, and let him help her down from the ladder.


End file.
